


Trapped

by Severina



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Community: hc_bingo, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-30
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2018-02-27 13:22:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2694626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The cell is dank and cold.  It is the first thing that she focuses on, once the fog has lifted from her mind.  Not the aching pain in her skull or the nausea that roils her stomach, but the bone-deep cold.  It has been so long since she has felt it, that shiver in her bones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trapped

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LJ's hc_bingo community for the prompt "imprisonment".
> 
> * * *

The cell is dank and cold.

It is the first thing that she focuses on, once the fog has lifted from her mind. Not the aching pain in her skull or the nausea that roils her stomach, but the bone-deep cold. It has been so long since she has felt it, that shiver in her bones. Certainly not in the dark castle, where the temperature was always as balmy as a spring day even if she rarely felt the warmth of the sun on her skin. Even during those few nights that she spent in the dungeon she never cried because of the cold, only for the loss of her family and for Rumplestiltskin's indifference to her plight. And she had not felt cold in the days since she left the castle, for the thaw had come and she was warm enough in her leathers. 

Belle shivers now, and pushes herself to a sitting position on the hard pallet. Her stomach lurches and for a moment she thinks she may lose her meager lunch on the dirty floor, but she presses a palm to her stomach and forces herself to take soft, shallow breaths until the feeling passes. She reaches a tentative hand to her head, sorts among the tangles of her hair but can't find a bump or bruise to explain the pain.

Magic, then. She squints and vaguely remembers the Queen's hand lashing out after she'd been led into the cell, the anger sparking in the Queen's eyes when she'd kept her head tall and her back straight and sat primly on the pallet. There is only blackness in her memory, after that, until she awoke stiff and sore. And cold.

Why must it always be magic? 

She looks down at herself, plucks at the thin and shapeless shift in which she's clothed before darting a glance at the open window set high in the stone wall and the thin slice of blue sky beyond. It may be a beautiful day but she remembers climbing up and up, the stairs seemingly endless and the witch's magic swirling around them like a living thing, and this high in the tower the air is bracing and still holds the chill of winter. Her gown and the insubstantial blanket she's been provided will do little to keep her warm. 

Belle takes a breath before standing, but the dizziness that she feared would assail her does not come to pass. She crosses the small room to test the door, which is of course locked and barred against her. A fruitless hope to find it unlocked, as she knows, but she had to try. She stands on tiptoes but cannot see out into the corridor, and refuses to call out to her jailer in any case. She makes a slow circuit of the room, grazes the rough stone with the tips of her fingers before returning to her uncomfortable pallet to pull the blanket onto her lap. 

She bows her head, realizes her fingers are twisting among each other in her anxiety and forces herself to stillness. She must simply consider her options. She has always had a fertile mind; her Papa always said so, too often scolding her for saying what she ought not say and then shaking his head when she protested that thinking and speaking what she felt were not bad things. Thinking, considering, questioning, having opinions – none of them were bad things, yet sometimes they are considered so when women do them. It is not fair, but it is true. 

Belle keeps her head bowed, considers her Papa now and recognizes that he is not an option. Much as she would like to think of him rallying their small barony to her defense, storming the castle with his knights to rescue her, it will never happen. He still thinks she's with Rumplestiltskin. Gone with him of her own choice and her own free will, and lost to her Papa forever. There will be no rescue from her people.

She glances again to the high window, studying the slice of sky. She's heard of birds acting as messengers, carrying scraps of paper over far distances. But even if she could entice a songbird to alight at her window, to whom could she write? Mulan, who is already bound to Phillip's quest to save his beloved? No, Mulan cannot help her… even if she could find a quill and something on which to scribble a few words. Belle huffs out an impatient breath and returns her gaze to her fingertips.

The guards, then. She has no doubt they are there, standing silent in the draughty hall. It will take time, to feel them out. To talk with them, and see if there is one among them who might risk the wrath of a Queen with magic at her fingertips in order to gain her father's gold. 

And if not the guards, there is always…

No. She will not call for him. Rumplestiltskin has made his choice, standing in a chamber similar to the one in which she now sits with eyes lowered to her lap and hair shielding her from prying eyes. She did not need the breaking of his curse to prove to her that their love was true; the proof was there in the pounding of her heart and the softness of his eyes when he looked at her. His choice of power broke her heart a little, and in such a way that she wonders if it will ever truly be mended. But with time and distance she has come to understand it, as much as she is able, and though she had planned to go to him and heal their rift she knows that she cannot force him to come to her by calling his name. The choice to come to her must be his, just as her choice to go to the dark castle – and to return to it, a little wiser – was her own. 

Until he makes that choice, he's trapped as much as she is.


End file.
